


Constellations

by kathkin



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, M/M, Multi, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, happy ot3 ending I promise, primarily geraskier & yennskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:52:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24018538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathkin/pseuds/kathkin
Summary: "I know how soulmarks work. If a person has two names writ upon them by destiny, then one is to guide them to their true love and the other to their worst enemy. Everyone knows that." / "That’s an old wives’ tale."When Jaskier was fourteen, two names appeared on his skin: 'Geralt' and 'Yennefer'.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 93
Kudos: 1332





	1. Jaskier

**Author's Note:**

> The serious fic to go with [this very silly textpost](https://penny-anna.tumblr.com/post/616665972005289984/witcher-ot3-soulmate-au-concept-its-possible) I wrote.
> 
> Thank you to [beyoursledgehammer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyoursledgehammer) for the beta!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“All I’m asking is for you to give me a chance.”_

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

Yennefer was, he had often reflected, rather like a spider; she had a way of moving silently, of popping up unexpectedly in his personal space and inspiring revulsion.

“Looking for you,” she said, coolly drawing up a chair at his table.

Jaskier splayed his hands. “Well, I can save you some time. Geralt isn’t here. I don’t know where he is. Go away.” He motioned at the door. When she didn’t move from her chair he motioned more forcefully. “ _Begone_.”

“I’m not looking for Geralt,” she said. “Geralt of Rivia could be dead in a ditch for all I care. I want to talk to you.”

“Well, regrettably for you I came here to drink alone,” said Jaskier. “If I wanted to drink with company I’d have found a more salubrious location and less –” He drained the last dregs of his ale. “– venomous company.”

“You look terrible.”

Jaskier glanced up from his empty tankard. “Oh, fuck off!”

“He really broke your heart, didn’t he?”

Broke it, threw the pieces in the dirt, and stamped on them till there was nothing left but dust and filth. “I really don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

Yennefer smiled at him, a smile that put him in mind of a cat toying with its prey. “We need to talk.”

“I emphatically disagree.”

For half a moment he pondered making a dash for the door. But the fact of the matter was, grimy and run down the as the tavern might be, it was _his_ grimy, run-down tavern. He had got there first and he was _not_ leaving just because Yennefer of Vengerberg had walked through the door.

She rested her chin on her hand. “You don’t even know what I want to talk about.”

“I don’t want to know,” he said. “Maybe I haven’t made myself clear enough.” He cleared his throat. “Fuck off and leave me alone, you heinous bitch.”

She had the gall to actually look _hurt_. “There’s no need to be like that.”

“There’s every need to be like that.”

“What did I do to make you hate me so much, Jaskier?” she drawled.

“Do you want the short list or the long?” he drawled back.

She laughed a nasty little laugh. “If you won’t let me talk, will you at least let me show you something?”

“If I say yes, will you just show me whatever it is and then go?”

Looking down at herself, Yennefer began to unlace her bodice.

“Whoa!” Jaskier raised a hand in a vain attempt to shield her from view. “What are you – stop getting your tits out, you –” 

He saw just exactly what she wanted to show him. His protests died on his lips.

Pulling her bodice down just enough to expose a stripe of breast – not quite enough to be indecent – she let him take a long look. Then adjusting herself, she laced it back up. “Still want me to go?”

 _Yes_ , he wanted to say. _Very, very badly_.

Or, to be more exact, he wanted her to take it back; wanted to unsee what he had just seen, so that he could get on with drinking himself into a miserable stupor. He didn’t know why’d she’d shown him, and he didn’t want to know. His life was complicated enough without _this_ thrown in.

Semi-consciously, his hand went to his left wrist.

“I know you have mine,” she said. “Geralt told me.”

“Oh, for – son of a _whore_ , does he had _no_ respect for my private business?”

“You never had any respect for his,” she said.

“That’s both untrue and unfair,” he said.

“May I see it?”

“See what?”

“Your mark,” she said. “My name.”

“Absolutely not,” said Jaskier. “I don’t know why you showed me yours.”

“It’s a soulmark in the shape of your name,” she said. “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Show the person?”

“Alright, allow me to rephrase.” Jaskier spread his hands on the table. “I don’t understand why you’re showing me _now_. You’ve known me years. You’ve had time. I don’t care that you have my mark. Fuck off.”

“You aren’t the slightest bit interested to know what it means?”

Jaskier pulled a face. “I know what it means.”

“Oh, come now,” she purred. “You don’t actually _believe_ that old wives’ tale. Do you?”

“Do you have an alternative theory as to why your name’s on me?”

“You know perfectly well what the alternative is.”

She sounded – as ever – outwardly calm, and composed, and a touch vicious. But something was off. She was ruffled – out of sorts. There was something behind her eyes he hadn’t seen before. A plaintive quality.

Setting both hands on the table, he looked her fully in the eye. She didn’t break his gaze. “Did you,” he said. “Did you come here to proposition me?”

“Is that such a terrible idea?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You _know_ why,” he said. “I’ve made my feelings about you perfectly clear.”

“You have my soulmark.” Her hand drifted across the table, towards his – towards his wrist, where she knew damn well her name was to be found. 

He snatched it out of her reach, rubbing it, running his thumb over the smooth leather band that hid her – _his_ mark from view. “I have a soulmate,” he said. “I’m not looking for another one.”

“And he broke your heart and left you in the dirt,” she said. “Maybe you ought to look at your options again.”

“Is that what you’re doing?”

“Yes,” she said baldly. “I thought I found my soulmate. Then I found out what he did to me, and I’ve been wondering if I might have had it back to front.”

He had a horrible feeling she might be serious. As out of character as it was – as badly as he wanted to believe she was up to no good – there was no faking a soulmark. He’d had hers since he was fourteen. The gods alone knew how long she’d worn his. They’d been bound together by destiny ever since their names had appeared on each other’s skin.

And she actually _cared_.

“But you hate me.”

“Not as much as I hate him.” She reached across the table and took his wrist, her nails digging into the leather covering his soulmark. “Let me buy you a drink, and we’ll talk.”

Jaskier looked askance.

“All I’m asking is for you to give me a chance.”

And wasn’t that just a punch in the gut.

*

“I’m only asking you to give me a chance.”

He was following Geralt along the dusty road at a sort of ungainly half-trot, Geralt’s walking pace being uncomfortably fast, as if trying to lose him.

“Your name was written upon my skin by destiny’s quill,” he said. “I’m dying to get to know you better – just dying, Geralt – aren’t you?”

“Aren’t I dying?” said Geralt, eyes stolidly ahead.

“Yes,” said Jaskier. “D’you want to see?” He reached for the laces of his doublet.

“No.”

“Don’t worry, it’s nowhere indecent –” He was scrabbling to get his doublet unfastened.

Turing fast as a snake Geralt caught his wrist, stilling his hands. “Calm down. Stop taking your clothes off.”

“How can you expect me to calm down? I just met my soulmate.” Geralt dropped his wrist, and turning his eyes away walked on. “The love and light of my life,” said Jaskier, hastening after him. “The centre of my universe.”

“You don’t even know you have the right Geralt."

“I know it’s you,” said Jaskier. “When I saw you it was as if my heart stopped beating. When I spoke your name it was as if –”

“You don’t even know if I have your mark.”

And for a long, dangling moment Jaskier swore his heart really did stop beating. He floundered, whatever poetic simile he’d been about to utter dead in the water. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t think.

“Well,” he managed, “do you?”

Geralt said nothing.

“ _Do_ you?” Jaskier broke into a run, drawing level with him. “Geralt,” he said, panic prickling along his spine. “Do you?” Still Geralt said nothing, and face burning Jaskier grabbed his arm. “Do you have my mark or don’t you? You have to tell me.”

He wasn’t strong enough to hold Geralt back. Even if he hadn’t known by hearsay just how strong a witcher was, he could feel the strength in Geralt’s arm, feel the steely hardness of his muscles, and he knew that when Geralt stopped walking, he was letting himself be stopped.

He let go of Geralt’s arm and stared up at him, at his impassive, beautiful golden eyes. He was looking away towards the horizon.

At length, Geralt sighed. He touched his left shoulder, indicating the spot just behind it, high up on his back. “You’re here,” he said.

And Jaskier could breathe again. 

“You could have just _said_ so.”

Geralt walked on, and he followed. A thought crossed his mind, dimly, like a thin cloud passing over the sun; that Geralt might not have wanted to tell him. That Geralt might have truly preferred they hadn’t met.

He pushed that thought aside. There was something else, anyway, an oddity of speech. “When you say _I’m there_ ,” he said. “Do you, um. If you don’t mind my asking, do you have another one?”

Yet again Geralt didn’t answer.

“It’s alright, you can tell me,” said Jaskier. “I’ve got two, as it happens. D’you want to see my other one?” He held up his wrist, where his other soulmark sat hidden by his sleeve. “No undressing required.”

“I don’t want to see it,” said Geralt.

“What does your other one say? Mine says –”

“That’s none of your business, bard.”

“Right.” Jaskier cleared his throat. “I suppose it isn’t. Although, you’ll have to tell me eventually, one assumes.”

“No, I won’t.”

“But –”

Adjusting his grip on his horse’s reins, Geralt halted, and turned fully to face him. “Can I offer you some advice?”

“Of course.”

“You don’t want me for your soulmate.”

Jaskier’s heart plummeted, cold and heavy in his chest. “I don’t think I have much of a choice,” he mustered.

Smiling slightly – having the nerve to actually _smile_ – Geralt took his left hand by the wrist and it up. “Sounds to me like you do.” He nodded at Jaskier’s wrist. “Go and find them.”

Jaskier slipped his hand from Geralt’s grip. “That’s not how it works.”

“Isn’t it?”

“Of course it isn’t,” said Jaskier. “I know how soulmarks work. If a person has two names writ upon them by destiny, then one is to guide them to their true love and the other to their worst enemy. Everyone knows that.”

“That’s an old wives’ tale,” said Geralt.

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is.”

“I really don’t think it is.”

“Then what makes you so sure I’m not your worst enemy?”

“Because.” Jaskier spread his arms. “Because I’m known you less than an hour and already my heart beats for you.”

“You’re infatuated with me.”

“Yes!” Jaskier agreed readily.

“Doesn’t make me your true love,” said Geralt. “Listen to me. I’ve met a lot of people with two marks. Met a handful with more than that, even. What they mean is different for everyone. Never met anyone who had the name of their worst enemy on their skin.”

“Well, we shall have to agree to disagree,” said Jaskier. “And anyway, regardless of the specifics it _does_ mean we’re bound together by destiny. Doesn’t it?”

“Hm,” said Geralt. “You want some more advice?”

“Gladly,” said Jaskier, though he suspected he wouldn’t love it.

“Fuck destiny,” said Geralt. “If you want a soulmate go and find whoever’s name that is on your wrist. And leave me alone.”

He walked on.

“I think you know I’m not going to do that,” said Jaskier, following.

*

The name had appeared on his wrist while he slept. The pigment was very dark, almost black against his skin, the script crisp and clean and looping. It said: _Yennefer_.

“Yennefer!” he exclaimed on the stairs. “What fair maiden goes with this name?”

“Julian.”

“I ache to meet her.” He draped himself over the bannister. “My heart already _yearns_ for her. Her name is music in my ears. Yennefer. Yennefer. _Yennefer_.”

“Is this your way of saying you’ve got a soulmark?”

“Yes,” he said, voice muffled by the bannister digging into his stomach. “Her name is Yennefer and if I don’t meet her within the year I shall _die_ of longing.”

“Splendid,” said his mother from the bottom of the stairs. “Now go and get dressed.”

“I can’t.” Standing up straight he flung out his arms. “I’m too excited.”

“That doesn’t mean you can spend all day like that.”

“I can’t possibly think about clothes in my present state. My heart’s too full.”

“Well, then,” she said. “What if this _Yennefer_ walks through the door this very hour and sees you in your nightshirt?”

“Good point,” he said. “I should get dressed. Right away.”

He ran all the way back up the stairs, murmuring it to himself in time with his steps. _Yennefer. Yennefer. Yennefer._

That night, lying in bed, he admired it by the light of the candle, tracing the shape of the Y with the tip of his thumb, feeling the slightly raised skin, the delicate lines. With a sigh, he put his wrist, tender side in, upon his chest. He didn’t need to keep looking at it. He knew that it was there, and it wasn’t going anywhere, not for the rest of his life.

Eyes heavy, sleepy, he ran his hand down his chest, touching himself idly, over the hem of his ridden-up nightshirt to his hip. His fingers touched raised skin that had _not_ been there yesterday.

He lay for a moment, frozen, wide awake. Then his heart thrumming in his chest he tumbled headlong out of bed, hoisting up his nightshirt and stepping closer to the candle, and – there was nothing there.

He ran his fingers over that patch of skin again. No, it was there. He could feel it. But in the low light and at that angle he couldn’t see it, and the letters were too small to make out with fingertips alone.

This was unbearable. He shoved his legs hastily into his discarded breeches, and half a minute later was pounding on his sister’s bedroom door.

In the parlour, by the light of a proper lamp, his sister Jeanine knelt in front of him and inspected his hip. Nearby his sister Arlette sat perched on the table, supervising.

“Well?” he said, already tired of holding up his nightshirt.

“You’re right,” Jeanine said. “There _is_ something there.”

“I know there’s something there!” he said. “What does it say?”

“It’s really faint,” she said. “Sort of like a scar.” She sat back on her heels. “It’s weird.”

“Jeanine!” he exclaimed. “What does it _say?_ ”

Leaning in, Jeanine took another long, considering look at the soulmark, which was entirely too close to certain tender parts of his anatomy for him to be comfortable having his sister staring.

“Geralt,” she pronounced.

“Geralt?” he echoed. He let his nightshirt fall back into place.

He’d never met anyone called Geralt – as far as he knew, anyway. The thought crossed his mind that he might have met a Geralt – or a Yennefer – and not knowing the significance not bothered to commit the name to memory. Wouldn’t that be awful.

“Geralt,” said Arlette from the table. “Like the Butcher?”

“Like the butcher?” he said, perplexed.

“The Butcher of Blaviken,” said Arlette. “Geralt of Rivia?”

“ _You_ know,” said Jeanine. “The witcher?”

“Oh!” he said, dimly recalling, or at least recalling the name Blaviken. “ _That_ Butcher.”

“You need to pay more attention to current events,” said Jeanine from the floor.

“Goodness me.” Arlette rested her chin on her hands. “Imagine if your soulmate was a witcher.”

“I’d hardly say that’s likely,” he said. “There’s lots of Geralts in the world, probably. And this one isn’t even necessarily my soulmate.” He looked down at himself, touching the place where his second mark sat. “Maybe he’s who I have to fight to win the hand of the fair Yennefer.”

At that they both burst into titters. “Oh,” said Jeanine. “Oh, my. Then for your sake I hope he isn’t the Butcher.”

“I don’t care.” He sat his hands on his hips. “I’ll fight him if I must.”

They laughed still harder.

*

It was a night, Jaskier reflected, for being filled with simple _joie de vivre._

He didn’t think he’d ever been so joyously happy to be in the open air, to be looking up at the stars; to be bruised and exhausted and muddy; to be giddy on vodka and joy and _life_. He flopped down on the damp grass and gazed up at the clear sky and began to laugh.

“Why are you laughing?” said Geralt beside him. He had leaves in his hair.

“Why aren’t _you?_ ” said Jaskier, and laughed harder.

He laughed until he ran out of breath, and gasped, and lay still. “Oh, my,” he said. “My.”

“You’re drunk.”

“So’re you.”

It was one of the more interesting quirks of witchers, he’d learned over the last few months, that they could imbibe a truly inhuman quantity of alcohol and be only humanly drunk at the end of it. Jaskier was fairly sure that if he’d drunk the volume of vodka he’d watched Geralt down earlier that evening he’d have dropped dead – or at the very least thrown up.

“Aren’t you just –” He stretched his hands up at the sky, at the wheeling stars, trying to convey through gestures at the majesty of the universe just what he was feeling inside.

“Just what?” Reaching up Geralt took one of Jaskier’s hands, and held it.

“Just very happy to be alive?” said Jaskier. “I thought we were dead, you know.”

“Hm.”

He’d been so sure they were as good as dead; so sure he hadn’t even been afraid, merely numb, and resigned. And yet there he was, alive and drunk and looking at the sky, Geralt beside him with leaves in his hair and firelight dancing in his golden eyes.

“I’ve never stared death in the face like that before,” Jaskier said. “Although. I suppose you do it all the time.” Turning to look at Geralt, he said, “don’t you?”

Geralt was still holding his hand, lacing their fingers together, thumb tracing circles on his palm. “Comes with the territory.”

“Do you stop feeling it after a while?”

“Fear?”

“No,” said Jaskier. “No – not the fear. This.” Geralt didn’t answer. He gestured emphatically at the sky with his free hand. “ _This_.”

Geralt wasn’t looking at the sky. He was looking at their joined hands.

“Do you truly not feel it?” said Jaskier. “Is tonight truly just another night for you?”

Geralt said, “hm.” He let go of Jaskier’s hand, and Jaskier’s heart sank, and he thought, _that’s it, then_. He readied himself for the inevitable, for Geralt to retreat to his own bedroll or quiet meditation, for the _shut up and go to sleep, Jaskier_.

But instead of getting up Geralt rolled half on top of him, and cupped his face, and for a long, precarious moment regarded him. His face was in shadow. Jaskier couldn’t read his expression but he had the sense that he was being examined – or perhaps admired.

Then Geralt kissed him.

Jaskier made a startled noise into his mouth, the world tilting on its axis, and for a moment he didn’t so much as have the presence of mind to close his eyes.

He threw his arms around Geralt, clutching at his back, at the leather of his armour, burying his hands in his hair, and kissed back.

He’d given a lot of thought, growing up, to what his first kiss with his soulmate might be like, and drunk and exhausted in a muddy field hadn’t been what he’d expected; but then when he’d met Geralt, when he’d realised who he was, who they were to each other, all of his expectations had gone flying out the window.

Geralt kissed like a house burning down, furiously, mercilessly, determined to consume him. Frantic, as if tonight might be their last night together. As if this one kiss might be all he’d ever get and so he’d drink every last drop of passion from it. It was like being devoured. It was like being _claimed_.

It wasn’t enough. He needed to feel skin beneath his fingers. He plucked vainly at the straps of Geralt’s armour, protesting till Geralt knelt up and unfastened it, throwing it aside piece by piece till he was clad only in his shirt. He fell upon Jaskier said, tongue darting in and out of his mouth, tugging at his doublet, at the laces of his breeches.

Fabric tore. Jaskier didn’t care. He’d worry about torn breeches later – just now he wanted – _needed_ – Geralt’s hand on him.

It passed in a haze of skin upon skin, of long, wet kisses and gasping breaths, Geralt’s mouth on his neck, on his shoulders, biting and sucking; of grunts and sweet sighs, and words falling from his lips, “Geralt, _Geralt_ , please, don’t stop – oh please just like that, don’t stop, _don’tstopdon’tstop_ – oh, gods – love you – love you –”

The blessed, warm mercy of release in Geralt’s hands. He lolled his head back against the damp grass, breathing hard, boneless with relief and a tender glow of satisfaction. He didn’t want this feeling to end. He resolved to live in it, moment by moment, as long as he could.

Geralt was lying on him, his breath on Jaskier’s neck, warm and unsteady. His hand drifted from Jaskier’s shoulder, running down his chest, toying with the buttons of his doublet, the dark trail of hair on his belly – his fingers went still, and Jaskier knew just exactly what he’d found and at once his mind was crystal clear and fizzing.

A long moment and Geralt’s fingers began to move again, exploring, running from one end of the mark to the other. “Is this it?” he said, voice rumbling through Jaskier’s chest.

“Yeah,” said Jaskier. “That’s you.”

Geralt sighed, and pushed himself up. Jaskier made a soft sound of protest at the loss of his weight atop him – but he wasn’t going far. He was moving down Jaskier’s body, down – Jaskier swallowed, throat tight – to look at the mark.

“It’s a bit – faint.” He pushed himself up on his elbow, somehow shy in spite of everything. His soulmark was harder to see than most even in good light. In the dark –

“I see it.” Geralt’s fingers traced over it again.

Then – gods, his _mouth_ , pressing against the mark in a wet, lingering kiss, and Jaskier threw his head back, eyes squeezing shut. “ _Fuck_ –”

“Yeah,” said Geralt, and ran his tongue over it.

And wasn’t _that_ a fantasy come true, his soulmate’s mouth, kissing that most tender and secret part of his skin. Accepting it. Welcoming it, even. He clutched at the grass beneath himself and forced his eyes open.

Looking up at the stars, he said, “you know what it means?”

“Yeah?”

“Means,” said Jaskier. “Means I’m yours.”

Geralt raised his head from Jaskier’s hip. His fingers twisted in Jaskier’s hair, drawing him in for another kiss.

He said against Jaskier’s mouth, voice low, “that’s not what it means.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for chapter 2, which will be up tomorrow or Thursday & will feature JASKIER wearing a FLOWER CROWN.


	2. Yennefer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She smiled at him sweetly, trying to say, with that smile, 'see? He wants me now. He’s mine, now.'_

“You want to see something hilarious?”

“Hm?” Geralt grunted, face pressed into the pillows.

“Sit up.” She swatted at his shoulder and with a groan he propped himself up onto one elbow.

As was usual for their trysts, they hadn’t got to the point of undressing, too preoccupied with each other to bother with the niceties of removing more clothes than they had to. But now, languorously, she began to unlace her bodice.

She tugged it down, showing him the name written across the top of her right breast.

He read it. Then he turned away with a snort of – what was that, amusement? Derision? It was hard to say.

“Lucky you.”

“You’re not surprised.” She adjusted her bodice to hide it again.

“I’m hard to surprise,” he said, lying back down. When he spoke again his voice was muffled by the pillows and her hair. “He has yours, you know.”

“I don’t really care,” Yennefer lied.

She’d been a year at Aretuza when the marks had appeared. They’d come together, on the same night, and she ought to have been happy. They said it was a happy occasion.

 _Geralt_ on her neck in small, sharp letters, blood-red. Curving atop her breast in flowing script and brown pigment, _Jaskier_. When she’d seen them in the mirror it had made her shake with rage. Who were these men, who had written their names on her while she slept. Who were these men who destiny had declared got to claim her. How _dare_ they.

If she fell in love, it would be with someone she chose, and who had chosen her. She’d never planned on finding either of them. She had kept their names, together with the scars on her wrists, as a reminder of what she was not.

But then somehow they’d found her, both of them blundering into her life on the same day and in the most absurd circumstances. Both of them at her feet, and both of them _unfairly_ handsome. Geralt, chiselled and beautiful, like a marble statue; Jaskier pretty and breakable, with dancing hands and eyes she didn’t doubt girls drowned in.

Both of them, it seemed, wearing her name on their skin.

Geralt bore Jaskier’s mark, on his back, just below his shoulder. It was a shade lighter than hers, and larger, but the script was the same, all curls and flourishes. Her mark was on the inside of his arm, very dark against his pale skin.

She knew that Jaskier had Geralt’s mark somewhere on his body. Neither of them had mentioned it, but they didn’t have to and nor did she have to look into their minds. It was all there in his face when he looked at Geralt, in his eyes and his smile, in his puppyish devotion.

“Are you fucking him?” she said aloud.

“Don’t see how that’s any of your business,” said Geralt to the pillow.

“So you are, then.”

“What’s it to you?”

“Mmm.” He’d ripped off his shirt earlier in proceedings, and trailing her fingers across his back she found the mark, tracing the loop of the J with her fingertips. “Do you trust him?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Really?” she said. He grunted. “I can’t say I blame you for fucking him. He’s – handsome, in a weasel sort of way. But I trust him about as far as I could throw him.”

Pushing himself up, Geralt said, “you don’t even know him.”

“I consider myself a good judge of character.”

“Hm.” He looked askance. “He thinks you’re his worst enemy.”

“Is he wrong?”

He snorted again. “You don’t actually believe that bullshit?”

“I _believe_ he’s a slimy little worm who I can’t stand.”

Ducking his head Geralt kissed her neck, just beside his own mark. “He’s not so bad once you get to know him.”

“I have no intention of getting to know him.” Nor did she have any intention of getting to know Geralt, or letting him know her; but that seemed to be happening whether she intended it or not. “You don’t have to keep him around just because you have his mark.”

“I don’t keep him around,” said Geralt. “He goes where he pleases. Part of his charm.”

“You know what I mean.”

For a long moment he didn’t answer. “They’re just marks,” he said. “I don’t care that I have his. I don’t need his name on my skin to know what he is to me.”

“And what is he, to you?”

Raising his head from her neck, Geralt said, “you say out of my private business, sorceress, and I’ll stay out of yours.”

*

“Amateur.”

“Oh, you’d _better_ take that back.”

“You’re a cheap hack, and an amateur.”

He backed away from her, spreading his arms and opening his mouth in a pantomime of shock. The festival had spilled out onto the street hours ago and other revellers ambled and danced around them, crowned and wreathed with flowers, laughing hard and drinking harder.

“How _dare_ you,” he exclaimed. “What would you know about musical talent?”

“I know you dress like a peacock to compensate for the fact that you don’t have any.”

“Well,” said Jaskier, the lopsided crown of flowers on his head lending everything he said a touch of whimsical absurdity, “at least I’m not compensating for a hideous personality.”

 _Hideous_ was a step too far. She snatched the wreath of flowers he wore and throwing it down ground it into the dirt.

“Ohh,” he said, “is _that_ how it is?” Then he actually had the gall to shove her.

She slapped him, her nails catching on his skin and leaving a pleasing red mark. “Ow!” he said, and shoved her again.

She shoved him back. “Touch me again and I’ll claw your eyes out.”

“Not if I claw yours out first – _hey_ –”

The tussle, such as it was, came to an abrupt end as Geralt’s strong arms wrapped around Jaskier from behind, lifting him off his feet like a doll. “Stop it,” he said in a warning tone.

“Let me _go!_ ” said Jaskier.

“He shoved me,” said Yennefer. “And he called me hideous.”

“I did _not!_ ” Jaskier wriggled in Geralt’s grip like an unhappy kitten. “And she fucking _slapped_ me – she slapped me, Geralt – put me _down_ –”

Geralt lowered him to the ground, but didn’t let him go. “Be polite.”

“She started it!” said Jaskier. “And I did _not_ call her hideous. I said she has a hideous personality, which is a different thing.”

“Don’t call Yennefer hideous,” said Geralt.

Twisting in his arms, Jaskier said over his shoulder, “why are you always on _her_ side?”

“You know why,” said Yennefer. Jaskier glowered at her and she smiled at him sweetly, trying to say, with that smile, _see? He wants me now. He’s mine, now._

He got the message. “Oh, you _bitch_ –” he hissed, struggling vainly against Geralt’s grip.

“Jaskier,” said Geralt.

“One of these days, I _swear_ –”

“Ohh,” Yennefer purred. “What’s sweet. What are you going to do to me?”

“I’ll think of something,” said Jaskier, truly, viciously angry now.

“Is that a threat?” said Yennefer. “Geralt, he’s threatening me.”

“C’mon,” said Geralt, and hoisting Jaskier up onto his shoulder he strode away into the crowd.

“I’ll think of something!” Jaskier cried over Geralt’s shoulder. “You sleep sometimes!”

Geralt came back to her side a few minutes later, empty handed. She didn’t ask what he’d done with the bard. Dropped him down a well, she hoped. “Sorry,” he said. “He gets like this when he’s drunk.”

Yennefer thought, _he hates me just as much when he’s sober._

She said, “I won’t let it spoil my evening.”

*

Upstairs in the inn, they tumbled into the too-narrow bed, trading messy kisses back and forth, Jaskier making soft mumbling noises against her mouth, unable apparently to shut up even long enough to kiss someone properly. She ran her fingers through his hair, dug her fingernails into his scalp, hard, harder.

“Mm.” She felt him jerk with excitement against her thigh. “ _Fuck_.”

He fumbled with the laces of her bodice, trying to untie it and hopelessly failing, his hands drunkenly unsteady. “Hold on,” she said, pushing him away. She snapped her fingers, sending her dress and underthings across the room.

He knelt up, startled. “Useful.”

“Want me to do you?”

“Not on your life.” He unfastened his doublet and shrugged it off. “I am _not_ letting you do any magic on my clothes, witch,” he went on as he pulled off his shirt.

Ducking his head he pressed his mouth to the soulmark on her breast, running his tongue over his name and then kissing just below it, kissing down the curve of her breast to take her nipple into his mouth. “You have,” he said between kisses, “the most _gorgeous_ breasts.”

“I know.”

He switched his attention to the other one. “I could – write sonnets about your breasts.”

“Do not,” said Yennefer. “Am I to be kept waiting, or are you going to put that famous mouth to better use?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Pressing one last kiss to her breast he crawled down the bed and got to work.

If Yennefer had her way, she reflected, in future Jaskier would spend a _lot_ less time talking, and a lot more time with his head between her thighs. He was – she thought as he toes curled – _not_ all talk.

Afterward she rode him, gloriously wet and messy, until he stopped babbling nonsense about her face and her breasts and her thighs, till he started making desperate animal noises, till he couldn’t take it anymore.

She watched his face as he came down. “ _Fuck_ me,” he said.

“Yeah,” she agreed, and slid off him. She needed to catch her breath.

At length, he rolled over and cupped her breast. “So does that,” he nodded at the soulmark, “mean this one belongs to me?”

Smiling serenely up at him, she took him by the wrist and lifted his hand off her. “Say that again and I _will_ hex your balls off.”

“Duly noted.”

It was harder than usual to be intimidating when she’d just come twice with his mouth on her and once riding him, but she managed. Jaskier, after all, knew she wasn’t in the habit of making idle threats.

She ran her thumb over the soulmark on his wrist. It was like Geralt’s. There was no mistaking otherwise.

He slipped his hand from her grip and flopped onto his back. They lay silently staring at the ceiling.

“This has been a long time coming,” he remarked. “Hasn’t it?”

“Probably.” Rolling onto her side, she ran her fingers down his chest, grazing her nails against his skin.

Her fingers skated over the unmistakable shape of a soulmark. “Is this Geralt’s?” she said, propping herself up, fascinated. It was small wonder she hadn’t noticed it while they were fucking. It was the colour of snow, hard to see against his skin if you didn’t know what you were looking for.

“Oh, he must have _loved_ that,” she said, running her fingernails over it to feel him shudder. It was just below his hipbone, not quite in his nethers, but getting there. A signpost to where the fun started. If one of her lovers had _her_ name written there she might just lose her mind. Trust Geralt not to appreciate what he had. “That’s delicious.”

“Leave off.” He batted her hand away from his soulmark, and sitting up swung his legs off the bed.

“Leaving so soon?” she said as he reached for his breeches. For once in his life, he said nothing. His face, what she could see of it, had gone very tight. Kneeling up, she draped herself around his shoulders. “No time for round two?”

“I have places to be.”

“No, you don’t.”

Exhaling sharply, he laid off fumbling with his breeches and put a protective hand over his soulmark. “Why are you doing this?”

“Why’d you think?”

“I really can’t imagine.” Shrugging her off, her stood and hauling his breeches up the rest of the way began to fasten them.

“I gather I’m your worst enemy.”

“Yes, well.” He stooped for his shirt. “That’s what people say. Isn’t it?”

She lounged back on the bed. “Did you ever consider that maybe you had it the wrong way around?”

He froze, his shirt around his elbows. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Be honest,” she said. “Have I ever hurt you as badly as he did?”

He tugged his shirt over his head. “That’s not – a fair comparison.”

“Isn’t it?” she said. “You’ve never done anything to make me hate you the way I hate _him_. I can tell you that much.”

He paused in the act of fastening his doublet and said, face turned away and half in shadow, “he didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I don’t imagine he considered my feelings on the matter.”

“He means well.”

“You don’t get to defend him on this one,” said Yennefer.

Jaskier fastened his doublet up the rest of the way. “No,” he said. “I don’t suppose I do.” He grabbed his boots and sat on the edge of the bed to put them on. “Do you want a word of advice?”

“Emphatically not.”

“No-one likes being second choice.”

“Naturally,” she said. Then she said, “why are _you_ doing this?”

“I don’t know,” he said to his boots.

Yennefer said, “and there it is.”

*

The room was light, the ceiling high and airy. Jaskier was lounging in the window seat, one leg dangling, just brushing the floor, idly strumming his lute. Nearby Yennefer sat at the table with her tea, contemplating.

This was becoming a habit, crossing paths with Jaskier. She hadn’t planned on it becoming a habit. But then, she hadn’t really had a plan when she’d gone looking for him, beyond finding out if he was interested. She’d been playing it by ear from the start.

They had the run of her borrowed manor house, the owner having thoughtfully absconded for a few days. They hadn’t spent this much time together before. It was beginning to feel almost domestic. Comfortable. She’d had a lot of affairs. None that she would describe as _comfortable_.

Jaskier certainly looked comfortable in his window seat, thoughtful and serious as he went from chord to chord. Composing, maybe. Entirely untroubled by her presence.

She broke the silence. “I met a mage yesterday.”

“Oh?” He glanced up from his lute. “I’d have thought you met a lot of mages, being one yourself.”

“Would you shut up and let me finish?”

He plucked a string. “I make no promises.”

“I met a mage,” Yennefer repeated, “who knows a spell for taking off soulmarks.”

For a moment Jaskier’s hands went still. 

He strummed a sad chord. “That so?”

“Interested?”

“No,” he said to his lute.

Not even a moment’s hesitation. She hadn’t really expected him to say yes – at least not straight away – but she’d thought he’d at least need to _think_ about it. “Not even a little bit?”

“I’ve had mine since I was fourteen years old,” he drawled. “I’m not looking to say goodbye now. Why are you?”

“I’m sick of looking at myself in the mirror and being reminded of things I want behind me.”

Jaskier shifted on his perch, and began to play a gentle tune. The sleeve of his doublet slipped down a little, and she glimpsed the edge of his – _her_ soulmark. He used to keep it covered up, she recalled. She hadn’t seen it covered for a long time.

“I mean,” he said. “It won’t actually change anything. Will it?”

“It’ll mean I won’t have to keep glamouring myself.”

“Yes, but you’ll still have destined soulmates and all that,” he said. “You just won’t have our marks on you.”

_Our marks._

It had never occurred to her for a moment, when she’d broached the subject, that he’d think she meant to get rid of his. But then why shouldn’t he? It wasn’t as if they’d ever talked about this thing between them, and what it meant.

For a dizzy moment she wanted to reassure him. Her pride stopped her. “You think I want to lose _yours?_ ” she said, teasingly.

“Well.” He looked up at her. “Don’t you? I know you glamour it away most of the time. Why wouldn’t you want it gone for good?”

“She charges by the soulmark,” Yennefer invented. “I don’t hate yours enough to pay double.”

Jaskier played on. “Just Geralt’s?”

“Just Geralt’s,” she said. “You in?”

Again he didn’t hesitate. “No.”

“Why not?”

“You know why.”

“Ohh,” she drawled. “Because you’re still madly in love with him. Is that it?” Abandoning her tea, she went to join him in the window seat, snatching his lute from his hands and setting it on the floor.

“Hey, now –”

“Wouldn’t it be nice,” she said, planting a hand on his hip, atop the mark, “not to be reminded of the way he broke your heart every time you look at your own skin?”

Gently, Jaskier took her hand away. “Are you,” he said, “jealous?”

She shrugged. “Of?”

“Of Geralt.”

Yennefer scoffed. “Of course not.”

“Oh?” he said. “Then why do you care if I keep it?”

“I don’t,” she said. “I’m just trying to offer you some advice.”

“Naturally.” With a sigh, Jaskier slouched back against the windowpane. “Well – have a pleasant time with the mage. Let me know if you change your mind about mine. If it’s to be magicked away I’d like to say goodbye first.”

“I’m not going to change my mind about yours.”

“Oh?” he said, sounding unconvinced.

“Is it really that unfathomable to you,” she said, “that I might want to keep you in my life?”

He stammered. “To be frank, yes – yes it is.”

Cupping his face in her hand, she kissed him.

She hoped dearly, as she regarded his flabbergasted expression, that rendering Jaskier at a loss for words never got any less satisfying.

“Ah,” he said. “Well. That’s.” He wet his lips. “I think I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting down.”

“Oh, splendid.”

“Soulmates.”

“What about them?”

“You said I’d still have destined _soulmates_ ,” she said. “Are you including yourself in that?”

“Well – ah, well, actually – I, I was speaking in general terms,” he said. “Rather than, than about –”

“No you weren’t.”

“Yes, but can we pretend I was?”

She put her hand upon his thigh. “Do you think we’re soulmates?”

“Fuck if I know what we are,” he said. “I don’t know anything anymore. But to be quite honest, I think I’ve had my fill of having a soulmate.”

She took his left hand by the wrist, and he let her. She couldn’t feel her soulmark through his sleeve, but she knew where it was. She’d run her fingers and her tongue over it enough times.

She said, “me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading and commenting! Third and final chapter up tomorrow or Friday and will feature THE OT3 and also CIRI.


	3. Geralt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They were just marks. Pigment on his skin. They were relics of a life he might have had._

“Oh, you are _kidding_ me,” said Jaskier, grabbing his wrist.

He hadn’t noticed the bard was watching, when he’d rolled up his sleeves to wash his hands and face in the stream. Then again, if he’d realised it probably wouldn’t have stopped him.

“Jaskier,” he said, a low warning.

The bard was turning his wrist to get a better look at the mark on the inside of his arm, and Geralt let it happen, not seeing any point in stopping him. Jaskier was nothing if not tenacious.

“What are the _chances_.”

“It’s just a mark.”

“No – look.” Letting go of Geralt’s arm, Jaskier drew back his sleeve and proffered his wrist. “Snap!”

There it was, the second of his soulmarks. Dark pigment spelling out the name _Yennefer_ , the script a perfect match for Geralt’s own. _Yennefer, Yennefer_ , their arms said.

“And?”

Jaskier deflated. “And it’s both fascinating and highly significant?”

Geralt shook his hands dry and rolled down his sleeves. “It’s a common enough name,” he said as he strode away.

“Oh, please!” said Jaskier, following. “They’re the _same_. I don’t suppose you’ve met her?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Who do you suppose she is? The lovely Yennefer? The mysterious Yennefer? Our mutual enemy?”

“Are you still on that?” Geralt looked at him. “What makes you think she’s lovely?”

“Well,” said Jaskier. “If my mortal enemy is a woman then naturally she must be a beautiful one.”

Geralt wondered, not for the first time, just how in the hell Jaskier’s mind worked. “What?”

Jaskier shrugged. “Naturally.”

“I’m not looking for a mortal enemy any more than I’m looking for a soulmate,” said Geralt. “I have enough problems.”

He turned away – not fast enough that he didn’t see Jaskier’s face drop.

“You’re not the slightest bit curious about her?”

“No.” Geralt thunked a saddlebag down on the ground.

“Not even a little? A tiny little bit curious?”

Geralt grunted.

They were just marks. Pigment on his skin. He’d learned long before he was old enough to have one that they didn’t matter, for a witcher. They were relics of a life he might have had. They were part of the fabric of his skin. Most of the time he forgot they were there.

It was difficult to forget when one of them was looking him in the eye and demanding his affection.

“Well,” said Jaskier. “I suppose that’s another one for the list of things I shall never understand about you.” Geralt heard his clothes rustle as he shifted his weight. “Need any help?”

Geralt cast about for something Jaskier might be able to help with and thrust an empty waterskin in his direction. “Fill this.”

“Gladly.” Taking it, Jaskier ambled back down to the stream, his voice carrying on the breeze. “I mean, you’d think having _two_ soulmarks would make a person twice as interested in them, but _nooo_ , witchers don’t care about soulmarks, _apparently_.”

It would be a hell of a lot easier to not care about his marks if he didn’t want Jaskier. If Jaskier didn’t want _him_ , so shamelessly, so loudly.

“I mean, is it a witcher thing?” Jaskier wandered back with the full waterskin. “To be honest if you’d asked me half a year ago I’d probably have thought witchers didn’t have soulmarks, for, for witcher reasons. But evidently you can and you do, so. Are you all so tremendously,” he waved a hand vaguely at Geralt, “like _this_ about it?”

“Yeah,” said Geralt. “Pretty much.”

Jaskier cleared his throat. He glanced down at the waterskin, fidgeting with it. “Well, anyhow,” he said. “Now that I’ve seen your other mark. Can I see mine?”

Geralt stared at him. Jaskier stared back, earnest and hopeful and so _fucking_ young.

“No.”

*

“Hm.”

“Not what you expected?”

Jaskier ran his fingertips over the mark, tracing the curve of the _J_. “Wasn’t sure what to expect,” he said. “It’s very fancy, isn’t it? Although – have you, um. Seen it?”

“Now and then,” said Geralt into the pillow.

This was the first time in weeks they’d had a decent bed for the night. The first time they’d been together indoors, comfortable and secure enough to be naked.

“Of course,” said Jaskier. “I don’t suppose you come across mirrors very often, your lifestyle being what it is.”

“Hm,” Geralt agreed. He wanted to go to sleep, and probably would even with Jaskier prattling on behind him. He’d got used to the prattling.

Jaskier touched the mark again, tracing each individual letter. “It says Jaskier.”

“Yeah,” said Geralt. “And?”

“It’s just,” said Jaskier, “not the name I was born with.”

“I figured.”

“Mm.” Jaskier’s mouth, wet against the mark. His tongue, exploring the raised letters as he had with his fingers. Geralt suppressed a shiver. His marks – both of them – were more sensitive than the skin around them. Tender. Ticklish.

With a sigh Jaskier ran a hand down his back and settle in to admire. Geralt listened to his breathing, slow and even and contented.

This was a mistake. He knew that. But fucking Jaskier had been so _easy_. He’d been so eager, so soft and pliant beneath Geralt’s hands. The way he mewled and squirmed when Geralt got his mouth on the mark low down on his hip – the catch in his voice when he cried out Geralt’s name while he was ploughing him – holding him after, as he caught his breath. These moments that had got under Geralt’s skin, that he already knew would come to him again and again when he pleasured himself in years to come.

He was content to lie there, enjoying the comfort of the bed, the warm room, Jaskier’s hands on him, his soft affection.

Jaskier pressed a kiss to his shoulder. “What are you thinking about?”

“M’dozing.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you up.”

“Hm.”

Fingers running through his hair, toying with it, smoothing it down against his back. “What do you think it means, then?”

“Hm?”

“If it doesn’t mean you’re mine. What do you think it means?”

“Doesn’t mean anything.”

Jaskier’s fingers stilled. When he spoke again there was a wobble in his voice. “You can’t possibly think that.”

“It’s a mark on my skin,” said Geralt. “It doesn’t mean shit.”

“Then why are we in bed together?”

“I like bedding you. S’good time.”

“Is that all this is?” said Jaskier. “Are we just – fucking?”

He didn’t know what to say to that. He lay for a moment, waiting for Jaskier to speak again, waiting for him to find some other topic to wax on about, something that he could doze to.

Jaskier was silent at his back.

“It’s not just fucking.”

“Then what is it?”

“We’ve been together a while now.” Almost a year. A good amount of time, for him. A very long time for a human as young as Jaskier. “I like having you around.”

“You _do?_ ”

“Hm.”

Jaskier’s fingers drummed on his back. “Is that all?”

“Isn’t it enough?”

“Did you truly not feel anything when we met?”

“Witchers don’t feel.”

“That’s bullshit and we both know it,” said Jaskier. “Stop avoiding the question.”

Geralt sighed, shifting his head on his folded arms. “You don’t even know for sure you’ve got the right Geralt.”

“Mmm,” hummed Jaskier, and he draped himself across Geralt’s back, nuzzling up against his neck. “I don’t want a different Geralt. I want _you_.”

“Yeah. See?”

“See what?”

“That’s real,” said Geralt. “Means something.”

Jaskier’s breath warm against his ear. “I love you. Does that mean something?”

“You don’t know me, bard.”

“Only because you won’t let me in.”

He wasn’t like Jaskier.

Jaskier wore his heart out in the open for all to see, and when he’d met Geralt it was as if he’d ripped it from his chest and presented it to him, still beating, on a platter. _Don’t give it to me_ , Geralt wanted to say. _It’s too precious. I’ll only break it. Don’t. Don’t._

If he was better with his words – fluent and fluid with them, like Jaskier – he might have been able to explain.

“Geralt.” Jaskier touched a kiss to his ear. “I know you’re awake.”

“Hmm?”

“Please say something.” He nudged him. “Geralt?”

“I want you,” said Geralt. “That means something.”

“Want me _how?_ ”

“Want you quiet so I can sleep.”

“ _Geralt_.” Jaskier smacked his arm. “That’s not funny. Answer the sodding question, Geralt.”

If he wasn’t so drowsy, he might not have answered; might have got up and walked away, might have avoided the conversation altogether. But he was halfway to sleep. But not giving Jaskier what he wanted was hard enough when he was wide awake.

He wanted to give Jaskier everything he wanted, all the time. Jaskier wanted his heart, and he ached to open up his chest and give it to him, if that would take away the hurt in Jaskier’s eyes.

“I want you as you are,” he said, and he felt Jaskier breathe out.

*

He wasn’t surprised that he crossed paths with them again.

Neither was he particular surprised, when he crossed paths with them, to find that they were together, in their own fashion. They had each other’s marks, after all. They’d always been shamelessly attracted to each other, much as they might like to pretend otherwise.

He _was_ surprised to find himself in their bed.

_I know a safe place you and your – charge, can stay,_ Jaskier had said. _But there’s a slight complication._

When he’d seen Yennefer’s hands on Jaskier, seen the way she touched him and realised what it meant, he hadn’t known how to feel, let alone what to say. 

“Do you know, I almost got you hexed off my skin?”

Yennefer lay beside him, tracing patterns on his back with her fingernails. Jaskier lay on his other side, fucked out and dozing heavily.

“Yeah?” He looked at the mark on her neck, the red letters on her skin. “What stopped you?”

“It was expensive and I had better things to do with my money,” she said. “I was going to learn the technique for myself. Never got around to it.”

“Hm.” He wondered how much of that to believe.

She used a glamour to hide her marks much of the time. He remembered acutely the day when she’d first bared her neck and showed him his.

“Would you have cared?” she said.

“Don’t know,” he said. “It’s your mark. Do what you want.”

“Hm.” Her fingernails skated over the mark on his back.

He didn’t doubt she was still angry with him. Why she’d decided to put her anger aside and take him to bed again he didn’t know, but he wasn’t about to complain.

Maybe it was Jaskier’s doing. Jaskier wasn’t a forgiving person by nature – could hold a grudge better than anyone Geralt knew – but where Geralt was concerned, the depths of his forgiveness seemed to be endless.

“I did _try_ to convince him to get rid of yours,” said Yennefer. “But he wouldn’t have it. He’s a soppy romantic and I despise him.”

“ _He_ is right here, and can hear you,” said Jaskier, rousing.

“Go back to sleep.” Geralt aimed a half-hearted swat at his backside.

“Wasn’t sleeping.” Pushing himself up, Jaskier half-climbed over him to address Yenn. “Stop telling lies.”

“You’re a cad and you repulse me.”

“Shush, my lady. You think I’m marvellous,” said Jaskier, and kissed her.

The kiss went on for a long while. Geralt lay between them, admiring the view, wondering just when Yennefer had become _my lady_.

They drew apart. “I’m thirsty,” said Yennefer sweetly.

“You’re demanding is what you are,” said Jaskier with an exaggerated sigh. “C’mere,” he said, tugging at Geralt’s hair till he raised his head for a kiss.

Jaskier kissed him like he was savouring it; slow and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and wanted to spend every moment of it kissing him. He’d missed Jaskier’s kisses.

“Hurry back,” said Yennefer as he tugged on his breeches.

“Hush,” he said. “I shall take as much time as I please.”

And he was gone; and they were alone. Sighing, Yennefer shifted closer to him, into his arms. He lay on his back, and said nothing.

“It’s funny, isn’t it,” she said at length, “how both of us have two soulmarks and neither of us is very good at sharing.”

“Hm.”

“Ironic.”

“Yeah.”

“You hated it, didn’t you?” she said. “Us scrapping over you.”

“Didn’t love it.”

He’d never wanted even one soulmate, let alone two of them threatening to claw each other’s eyes out on his account. He’d never imagined, when their names first appeared on his body, that one day he might have to choose between them. He didn’t _want_ to choose between them.

But this, this calm, this was nice. It was nice, having both of them.

They were good together.

He said, “would it be better if I stepped away?”

“I think if you step away now you’ll break his heart again,” said Yennefer. “And I think if you break his heart again I might kill you for it.”

Geralt stroked her hair, mulling that over. “That how it is?”

“Apparently,” she said, not sounding very happy about it.

The door opened, juddering against the wall. “Here,” said Jaskier, thumping a tray down upon the bedside table. “Drink up.”

Kicking off his breeches, he clambered onto the bed, insinuating his way between them as if it were his right and privilege; and wasn’t it, Geralt reflected. Wasn’t it just.

*

“Do you remember when we met?”

“Yeah.”

They were sitting in the kitchen of Yennefer’s house – or at least the house she currently occupied. He hadn’t asked any questions. Jaskier was sprawled in his lap, one of Geralt’s arms around his waist, to all appearances entirely comfortable.

“Hm,” hummed Jaskier.

“You going somewhere with this?”

Jaskier shifted in his lap, straddling his thigh. “I am, as it happens.” He tilted his head back and said to Geralt, “you asked me how I knew you weren’t my worst enemy.”

“I was joking,” said Geralt.

“I know you were,” said Jaskier. “That’s not the point. I said – well, actually I don’t remember exactly what I said to that.”

“Something about your heart beating for me.”

“Sounds about right.” Jaskier rested his head on Geralt’s shoulder. “I didn’t think I could ever hate you.”

Outside, Ciri and Yennefer’s voices carried on the wind as they made their roundabout way back from the woods.

“But then I did,” said Jaskier. “I hated you so much. I don’t think I’ve ever hated anyone that way.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are, love, and if you keep saying so it will eventually become counterproductive,” said Jaskier, glancing up at him. “Will you let me get to the point?”

“There’s a point to this?”

“Yes there is, so shut up.” He put his head on Geralt’s shoulder, and taking his free hand squeezed it thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking lately that there might be some truth to the whole worst enemies business after all.”

“Yeah? How’d you figure?”

“You can’t hate someone without loving first,” said Jaskier. “I could only hate you that way because I loved you so much. And I only hated Yenn because I loved you and thought she was going to take you away from me.” Gazing absently up at the ceiling, he went on, “I thought you wanted her more than me.”

“I wanted her different to how I wanted you,” said Geralt. “Not more.”

Reaching up behind him, Jaskier stroked his face. “I know.”

Geralt shifted his grip, putting his hand on Jaskier’s hip, atop his mark. He remembered the first time he’d seen it. He hadn’t realised how it would affect him, seeing his own name on another person’s skin. He’d felt a hundred things at once and hadn’t known which of them was right. Lust had won out – lust, and unease, and wild happiness.

These days it felt comfortable. Safe. Knowing it was there, and would always be there, was a comfort.

Sighing, Jaskier turned his head for a kiss.

“What are you _doing?_ ”

Ciri stood in the kitchen doorway, hands upon her hips like an angry farmer’s wife and a scandalised expression upon her face.

Jaskier shifted at once into a more decent position in Geralt’s lap, arranging his features into the _butter won’t melt in my mouth_ look that he’d long since mastered. “Sitting.”

“Gross.”

“How was outside?”

“Gross, gross, _gross_.” Coming fully into the kitchen, Yennefer at her heels, Ciri pulled off her gloves and threw herself down at the table. “Is this how _everyone_ is when they have a soulmate?”

“Emphatically no.” Yennefer put her hands on Ciri’s shoulders. “Forgive them. They’re honeymooning.”

“We’ve known each other twenty years,” said Jaskier.

“And?” said Yennefer. To Ciri she said, “do you want my advice? If you find you have a soulmate, avoid them at all costs.”

“Absolutely not,” said Ciri. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“That’s the spirit,” Jaskier chuckled. Again he reached up to stroke Geralt’s face. “You need a shave.”

“I can’t very well shave with you sitting on me,” said Geralt, taking his hand by the wrist and kissing it.

“Gross!” Ciri protested, and Jaskier laughed.

They couldn’t stay forever. Soon they’d have to talk about moving on north before winter fully closed in, and whether Yenn and Jaskier would follow. (He hoped they’d follow.)

But for now, this was good; this temporary home they’d built together, Ciri’s safety, Yennefer’s company, Jaskier’s easy love and affection extending to all of them. For now, it was good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for reading and commenting! <3 I hope you have all enjoyed this last chapter and the timeline was not uh too confusing.


End file.
